RIEPE'S WORLD

I love the serenity of Mystic Canyon here in New Mexico it's been a great source of inspiration for my stories. I felt the spiritual elements the first time I walked the deep wide arroyos. We writers get our inspirations from the strangest sources. On occasion however the wife and I hop in the land yacht and cruise up to LasVegas for business, friends and family. For some time now I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with my neighbor in Las Vegas, Edward 'Rex' Riepe. He is the author of the popular Fema Camp novels set in a grim future where the government has failed miserably. The once proud American way of life has been replaced by concentration camps, slavery and cannibalism.

He’s published twenty-five books predominantly in the speculative fiction genera, apocalyptic being his specialty. Among his works the 2101 Chronicles [8 books and over a million words], the Fema Camp series six books, The God Trilogy, Las Vegas Worm Club, and Arks from HEAVEN just to name a few.

Many writers begin right out of school and work for decades spinning yarns about life in their carefully crafted worlds. Rex by contrast has lived a rough and rambling life and then started writing rather late. I can relate to that. His work is course, gritty and lacking in fine silky finesse but then real life is seldom silky and almost always gritty. I totally get that as well. He spends night after night listening to Pink Floyd, sipping whiskey over ice in a coffee cup and banging out explosive violent chapters. A writer after my own heart.

In truth it was not his body of work as a late blooming author that got me into writing this piece. It was the life altering events, and the strange source of his ‘divine’ inspiration that really got my attention, so it begins thusly.

KCV: I’d like to write a story about your life and art. I think it would be interesting.

REX: Aw hell, my life’s not interesting.

I would have to disagree with him on that point, but ‘interesting’ might not be the correct word. Riveting. Yes, that’s the word. The guitar playing rocker has traveled a well worn path that has left many a scar from road rash on his weathered carcase. I was determined to peal back some of the scabs and see what lay beneath.

Oh don’t get me wrong it’s not that he’s terribly shy about talking, Rex can go on for hours and never skip a breath. But as I scribble notes with pen to paper I can’t keep up and he’s already two chapters ahead of me. Then I get side tracked as we digress into talking about writer stuff which we love to talk about. The stuff that really wouldn’t interest anyone but slang slingers like us. So it’s taken a dozen visits to compile this short piece.

Born in Kansas City to a family of modest means there were no silver spoons. At the tender age of eight young Rex was stealing fruit and vegetables from a kindly German lady, Mrs. Gufthaus. She caught him but rather than seek punishment she gave him a job and he became a wage earner rather than a criminal.

REX: Mrs Gufthaus was a wonderful woman, she paid me thirty cents and hour.

In his early teens he began to play guitar and later would play backup and opening acts for some of the great legends of Rock-N-Roll. He played for me some of his tunes on his digital guitar it was amazing. His fingers danced over the strings like butterflies seeking musical nectar.

KCV: So you were a Rock Star?

REX: No, not a Rock Star, just a musician... but a damn good one.

As the turbulent sixties came to a close so did a tragic episode of American history. In 1969 Rex was a senior at Florida’s Oviedo High. I perused his year book, he’s on every other page. Football, Sax player in the band, building bonfires. He boast of getting into fights with a coach and teachers but managed to stay in school. Oh yeah, this crewcut sporting jock was also captain of the basketball team. He delighted in pointing out all the pretty blonds he cavorted with but there was one picture of a shy girl that somehow avoided the rowdy Casanova. But her story doesn’t begin for another twenty-five years.

Segregation was ending but racial tensions were running high. Five white team mates failed to show for practice when four black players joined the team. Rex stayed on in spite of the usual name calling and peer pressure. It’s good to have the hide of an armadillo, it helps to deflect the bullshit.

KCV: So why didn’t you quit with your teammates?

REX: I love basketball, and the girls were always coming around. I didn’t care who I played with, I had a lot of fun with those guys.

Donald Sterling apparently didn’t get that message forty years ago. Rex went on to collage and eventually graduated after some... shall we say disciplinary differences. Okay, he was a smart ass there too. After collage he tried a suit and tie for a spell but being a respectable Joe just never played well with the rebel and another clean cut youth fell prey to the lure of Drugs, Sex and Rock-N-Roll, yeah baby.

While he was a damn good guitar player music dollars were fast and loose. Over the years he was successful in the computer business and other endeavors but marriage was not one. Finding himself a single father dropping the kids of with the Ex., his life had taken a down turn. No he never reached the highs of a Rock Star but he certainly partook of the earthly pleasures of one. On a dreary Christmas eve after dropping off the kids he wandered into a bar looking for a friend in a glass. His roving eye spied a couple of girls at the bar one in particular drew his gaze.

REX: She was a real looker, but I didn’t recognize her as anyone I knew.

As he was about to embrace the sweet caresses of a seven and seven a voice from his past penetrated the purple haze he’d fallen into.

MR: You’re Rex Riepe aren’t you?

REX: Who are you?

MR: Marcia Beasley. We went to High school together.

REX: Well you sure have change, in all the right places.

He hadn’t seen her since high school, two and a half decades had passed but she had certainly grown up. In that moment the fog cleared and his life suddenly took a new turn. Santa Claws had come for Rex Riepe and delivered an enduring love affair. They were inseparable in play and work from that moment on. They moved around a lot and Rex worked in construction. Marcia was no house bound daffodil she took up carpentry and they worked side by side.

REX: That’s how we shared our lives. We did everything together.

Money was decent and the road had smoothed a bit but when you least expect it there’s always a sharp turn. In 1998 while working on a roof in Florida he heard Marcia yelling his name amid vicious growls. From the roof he saw a massive black and tan Rottweiler dragging his owner like a sack of potatoes. The huge canine had her pinned down, she blocked with her arm as the dog went for her face. Rex leapt into action by jumping off the roof and landed flat footed near the great hound. Finishing hammer in hand he beat the beast off her until she could scramble away. Marcia escaped permanent injury save for a persistent fear of dogs. However, two days later suffering from excruciating back pain, Rex learned his third and forth vertebra were compacted from his hard landing. The damage required a long rehabilitation. It was a big hit in the bank book but they persevered and eventually started over.

Another ten years would pass and the pair would share every day with work, family and the usual stress of life. In Vegas that’s rich food and cheep drinks a combo that ushers along the ravages of time, and age was creeping up on the love birds.

Along about 2009 Rex was suddenly gripped with chest pains. A crushing spasm that surly felt like the hand of God was holding his heart and giving it a playful squeeze. Unable to drive he surrendered the keys. Marcia took the wheel and headed for the hospital. The pressure from his pounding heart increased and Rex was becoming delirious. Traffic was at a crawl and out of desperation Marcia took the car onto the sidewalks and zoomed around the jam. They arrived at the emergency room none to soon for a few minutes more and the guitar picker would have been strumming a golden harp.

REX: She saved my life, no doubt about it.

During his recovery the doctors discovered large tumors in his body and evidence that the hard working life had taken a hefty toll. Recovery was slow and painful. During his convalescents he began to have dreams, spiritual in nature. Later he would recall them vividly. A movie would play in his head staring characters bearing a strong resemblance to his German-Indian ancestors. Strange worlds in far flung star systems, dark apocalyptic visions swept across the movie screen in his head. He started to write the stories down and the visions continued they seemed to carry a prophecy of man’s rejection of the Word of God and the dire consequences to come. The dreams grew more powerful and the movie in his mind more graphic. The message was crystal clear. Time is running out for you Rock-N-Roller.

The tumors were inoperable and the notion of giving up liquor had little appeal. So Rex consulted with his God and decided to proceed on faith. A deal of sorts began to manifest requiring him to deliver a message laced in his high adventure prose. So proceeding with powerful inspiration from a divine source, Rex picked up his key board and has been writing like a man possessed ever since. A pile of rejections sit on a shelf but he publishes his works on Amazon and sales mount daily as a legion of fans clamor for more of his dark prophecies. He has defiantly truck a cord that appeals to a great many.

REX: Marcia is my editor, critic and co-writer. It’s what we do now to share our lives. They’re just stories but we’re having fun. When it stops being fun I’ll quit doing it.

Their stories foretell of a government turning on its citizens. Spying on Americans, stealing their property, taking their guns, and a diabolical collaboration of the super rich and the mega powerful to wield ultimate control. Foreign powers seeking world domination and the crushing boot of oppression on the traditional values of family and freedom. No I’m not repeating today’s headlines, I’m talking about Riepe’s World... Or am I?

My friend is still dreaming and still writing and the world is still headed towards his apocalyptic prophesies. Is he worried? Not as long as he has Pink Floyd and and a cup of cool sweet Seven.